


counter culture

by queervengers (nonsexualandsilly)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 15:04:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2313788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonsexualandsilly/pseuds/queervengers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you sure you don’t just want an iced coffee?”<br/>“For fuck’s sake,” she says, before walking behind the counter, tying her red hair up into a bun as she does. “You’re lucky nobody else is in line.” She heads for the espresso bar. “Do you at least know how to pull shots?”<br/>“In theory?”</p>
<p>or: allie writes a disgustingly self-indulgent scydia coffee shop au</p>
            </blockquote>





	counter culture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [combustspontaneously](https://archiveofourown.org/users/combustspontaneously/gifts).



> requesting a coffee shop au from someone who actually works at a coffee shop is a dangerous game

It’s Scott’s first day and he wants to die already.

It’s not like Counter Culture seems like a bad place to work - it’s just that they’ve been fucking _swamped_ , and one of the other guys he was supposed to be working with - Derek, he thinks? - had a family emergency or something, and now it’s just him and Stiles, and Stiles is great and all, but keeps forgetting to tell him _vital things_ like how to use the coffee pots, or what the wifi password is, or how to find things like quad shot caramel macchiatos in the register. And so he keeps screwing up, and Stiles is supposedly just grabbing more cups from the back now that the rush is mostly over, but it’s been like ten minutes, and the girl ordering is asking for a drink he’s not even sure _exists_ , and all he can do is stare blankly at her.

“A...what?” he asks.

She runs a hand through her red hair and sighs before repeating herself. “Almond milk cortado, dry but not too dry, two extra shots, with two pumps of hazelnut?”

“Uh huh,” Scott says, finding the buttons on the register, which takes an embarrassingly long time. “That’s gonna be $5.13.”

She pulls out a credit card, and he fumbles through swiping it for her, and then he stares at the screen because he has _no idea how to make her drink._

“You’re new, aren’t you,” she says. It’s not even a question.

“First day.”

“I can tell.”

“Are you sure you don’t just want an iced coffee?”

“For fuck’s sake,” she says, before walking behind the counter, tying her red hair up into a bun as she does. “You’re lucky nobody else is in line.” She heads for the espresso bar. “Do you at least know how to pull shots?”

“In theory?”

She hands him a small cup. “Squirt two pumps of hazelnut in here.” He does, then hands it back to her. She’s grinding espresso into one of the...things it goes into. He has no idea what she’s doing.

“Tamp,” she orders, handing the thing to him, along with the tamper. He knows how to handle that, at least, and does so. “Pull the shot.”

He’s about to push the button when she smacks his hand away. “Wrong button. You guys pull double shots, right?”

“I think so?”

“You do. This is the button you’re looking for.” She points at the one with two cups pictured on it.

“That...makes sense.”

“Of course it does. Push it.” He does, and she hands him another shot to tamp and pull, and then another. The machine cuts them off, thank goodness, so he doesn’t have to worry about timing, but he has no idea what to do next.

“Now pour those into the hazelnut, and get out the almond milk and a pitcher.”

“What size?”

“The smallest. Do you even know what a cortado _is_?”

“No,” Scott admits with a shrug.

“You’re adorable. Four ounces of almond milk in the pitcher.”

He measures it out and pours it into the pitcher.

“Now steam it, but let it aerate for longer than usual before you drop it, to get it on the dry side. But keep it foamy, still.”

Scott has no idea what anything she’s saying means. “Was that even English?”

“You’re the worst barista I’ve ever had,” she says, almost affectionately, before taking the picture from him. She holds it under one steam wand. “See how the line on the wand is right at the level of the milk? That’s where you hold it to aerate. Here, get your hand on the pitcher so you can tell by feel.”

He rests a hand on the small space where her hands aren’t covering, but she adjusts it to a better grip, letting him hold the pitcher with her hands resting on his for guidance.

“Turn the knob all the way to the left,” she orders. He does, and she guides his hand back to the pitcher, holding it steady. “You can do this with a thermometer, but it’s harder with the tiny pitchers. So do it by feel - see how it’s almost too hot to hold now?” He nods, but he’s distracted by her small hands on his. “Move your grip to just the handle, so you don’t burn yourself, then drop it.”

“Drop the pitcher?”

She laughs, then guides his hands to adjust the pitcher so the wand is lower in the milk. “Now turn it off.” He does, and then she pours the milk into the espresso she’d poured before, casually moving the pitcher around so that the milk, in the end, forms a perfect _L_ on the surface.

“You just made your first cortado, new boy.”

“I think you mostly made it, to be fair.”

“You can make it by yourself tomorrow; I’ll be back.” She smiles, then takes out her bun, red hair falling back over her shoulders in waves before she walks back around the counter and drops a bill in the tip jar.

“I’m Lydia, by the way,” she tells him.

“Scott.”

“See you tomorrow, Scott,” she says with a wave as she heads out the door, heels clicking on the hard wood.

Scott watches her walk away, then makes his way back over to the espresso bar to clean up. He’s doing his best to remember what his training packet said about purging after shots when Stiles _finally_ comes back.

“Sorry, man, we were out of backup large cups, and then the dairy order finally came in, but then they spilled an entire fucking case of honey, and oh my god did you make an espresso drink? Are you okay? You’re not espresso trained, dude. Why didn’t you come get me?

“I handled it! We’re good!” Scott grins.

“I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt but if someone ends up dead because you, like, really fucked up their drink, that’s all on you, man.” Stiles pats him on the back. “I’m gonna drop tips; let me show you how.” He pulls out a bag from under the counter, then grabs the tip jar. He starts pulling out bills. “So you just take one of these bags, and -” He drops the glass jar, and it breaks into three pieces on the floor. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Scott asks, already grabbing the broom.

“It finally happened,” Stiles says softly, then repeats himself, louder. “Gorgeous redhead came in, ordered a weird drink?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh my god. Five months of asking for Lydia Martin’s number and all it takes is her coming in when I’m not here. Maybe she likes it when I play hard to get? Oh my god.” He holds up a twenty dollar bill with a post-it stuck to it. “Did she ask for me? Oh my god. Scott. Tell me exactly what she said. Did you poison the love of my life with your shitty attempt at an espresso drink?”

Scott kind of remembers Stiles going on and on about his dream girl a while ago, but he’s tuned out the commentary ever since, because Stiles has never had a chance with this girl, and has always kind of talked about her like she was more of an idea than a person.

Though, having met the infamous Lydia, Scott kind of gets it now.

“I’m gonna text her. What do I say, man? Is ‘hey’ too boring? No. It’s cool. It’s classic. I’m gonna do it.”

“Stiles -”

“Sent. Done. Bam.” His phone vibrates seconds later. “Scott. She called me _hot stuff_. Is this an alternate universe where I’m suddenly a sex god? Because she called me _hot stuff_. And asked for my last name. I wonder if she’s thinking about marriage. Lydia Stilinski sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?”

Scott is mortified. _Mortified._

Stiles‘s phone buzzes again, and he unlocks it with a grin, right before his face falls completely. “‘Are you related to that Stiles kid?’ Scott, what the hell does that mean?”

Scott runs a hand through his hair. “Are you sure she left her number...for you?”

“Why would she leave _you_ her number, though? I mean, I bought her flowers on Valentine’s Day. I googled her birthday so I could give her a necklace on it. I’ve been wooing her for _months_. You, what, made her a shitty coffee? Women make no sense. I’m gonna go drain the decaf, because I can’t even look at you right now. Oh my god.” Stiles throws his hands in the air and heads to the back.

Scott picks up the tips, puts them into the bag, and adds Lydia Martin to his contacts.

 

  
Stiles gets over it, but it takes him almost a week to stop slamming the door every time Scott gets home, and Scott has to get all of his training from Danny and Greenberg, because Stiles keeps refusing to work the same shifts as him. To speed things up, Scott doesn’t text Lydia while Stiles is around, but she sends him the most bizarre texts about math theorems and fashion choices throughout the day and night, and he finds himself wondering if she sleeps at all. But she looks well-rested when she comes in at 7:48 every day for her not-too-dry dry hazelnut cortado, and by day three he’s able to make it to her standards, which usually earns him a smile and a text thanking him. Sometimes she includes ways to improve his barista skills, or his fashion choices, but mostly her texts are just clever observations about the world around her.

He’s pretty sure they’re friends.

 

 

  
For three weeks, the system works perfectly, and then Scott’s manager, Peter, decides he needs to learn to work closing shifts. Lydia’s morning texts turn into criticisms of Greenberg’s drink-making and grumpy messages about insufficient caffeine. Three days later, she comes in at 9:30, while he’s closing with Stiles - who is, again, off wrangling something in the back room. Scott is starting to suspect he’s got a pet snake back there or something, or is maybe taking naps.

“Scott McCall,” Lydia says as she comes through the door, looking impeccable as always in a black coat and terrifyingly high heels. “I need -”

“The usual?”

She makes a face. “Hell no. That’s been ruined by me forever by that Greenberg kid. How about you just shut things down early and buy me a drink elsewhere?”

Scott looks up at the clock over the door, but he’s still got half an hour before he can start shutting things down completely, and then at least another twenty minutes after that. “I’d love to, but I can’t close early, and I’ve got so much left to do, and -”

“Want backup?”

“I mean, I have backup, he’s just off stocking the back room.”

She’s behind the counter before he’s done talking, taking her coat off and tossing it onto an empty section of counter. “Extra backup, then. Have you cleaned the espresso machine yet?”

“I don’t actually know how yet,” Scott admits. Lydia smiles slowly and looks up at him before bending over to get out a box of cleaning supplies below the machine.

He tries really hard not to notice how good her butt looks in that skirt. He also tries really hard not to think about how good her butt probably looks in other skirts. Or pants. Or...

He concentrates on how full the trashes are instead. And how gross the sludge bucket under the condiment station probably is. And other things that _aren’t Lydia’s butt._

She stands up, _finally,_ cleaning supplies in hand, then passes them to Scott. “Purge the one you’re cleaning first, then scrub with the little brush, then use the screwdriver to loosen the filter,” she orders. He does so, then turns to her for further instruction. “Now get a scoop of machine cleaner into that portafilter and let it run for a minute or so. But here, you need to push it in tighter, so it doesn’t leak.” She reaches up and puts her hand over his, to show him how to pull it.

And then she looks up, and she’s _right there_ , in her loose blouse and terrifying heels and red lipstick, and she’s got him right against the counter. Scott’s only a little bit surprised when she closes the distance, pulling his head down so she can kiss him. She moves his hand from the machine to her waist, then tangles her hands in his hair, one of her legs wrapping around his as she steers him to another section of empty counter. She bites his lip gently, then slides her tongue into his mouth, just a little bit, and she kind of tastes like cold brew coffee and vanilla and her hair smells like coconut and flowers and he’s so overwhelmed by her, just like he has been since they met.

He lifts her onto the counter, and she wraps her legs around his waist, grinning against his mouth as she kicks off her shoes. “You sure about not leaving early?” she teases as he kisses his way down her neck, one hand slipping under her blouse.

“I’m -” he starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of the kitchen door opening.

“What. The. Fuck,” Stiles says.

Lydia throws her head back and starts laughing, and it’s contagious, but Scott’s trying really hard to keep a straight face because Stiles looks so shocked.

“Um,” he says. “I can -”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Stiles interrupts, walking over to them and turning off the espresso machine. “Just. On the _counter_? Really? Also, how long has that been backflushing for? Because if I’m reading it correctly, it just ran for _six minutes_. Do you want to make the entire fucking machine explode? Oh my god,” he repeats. 

Scott opens his mouth to explain, but Stiles doesn’t let him. “Just leave, holy shit. Worst closing partner _ever_.”

Scott finally lets out the laughter he’s been holding back, and Stiles joins in for a moment before stopping abruptly. “Seriously, bro, get the hell out before I get mad at you for making out with the girl of -”

Lydia clears her throat. “I’m not the girl of your dreams, Stiles. Get over it.” Stiles’s jaw drops, and Lydia jumps down from the counter. “Come on, Scott.” She slides her shoes back on and grabs his hand before leading him out the door.

“That was harsh,” Scott comments once they’re outside.

“He needed to hear it. I’m a person, not a prize.”

“I don’t know,” Scott says, squeezing her hand. “I’m kind of feeling like a lucky winner right now.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, McCall.” She kisses him on the cheek, then once on the mouth again, softly. “Now, come on, I’ve got a fantastic coffee maker at my place I’ve been dying to show you.”

 

 

 

  
**EPILOGUE**

“That’s a Keurig machine,” Scott says. “You told me you had -”

“Scott,” Lydia says condescendingly. “Do you really think I invited my favorite barista to my apartment at ten PM for a coffee tasting?” She points to one door. “Bedroom. Go."


End file.
